


Pain Like Balm

by Toft



Category: Hannibal (TV), Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, BDSM, Bloodplay, Crossover, F/M, Humiliation, Knives, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Ownership, Painplay, Pegging, Prostitution, Serial Killers, Sexual Slavery, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D/s fantasy AU. A crossover between Hannibal and Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel's Legacy series (but you seriously don't need to have read the books). Will's an anguiset (basically, a divinely mandated sub), born to experience pain as pleasure. He's an indentured courtesan, trained in the Night Court and adopted by Lord Jacques Crawford, the Lord Detector; he combines spying for his master with assignations with the highest nobility in the land, including Lord Hannibal Lecter... (written for the Kink Bingo square 'tattoos/tattooing').</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entering Service

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to longwhitecoats for all the brilliant ideas she contributed to this, and for her encouragement! An enormous thank you also to bkwyrm, for a very speedy turnaround on her beta!
> 
> This follows loosely the story of the first book in Jacqueline Carey's series, Kushiel's Dart, and as such contains some vague spoilers for that book.
> 
> General warnings for whole fic at my DW post here: http://toft.dreamwidth.org/706672.html. I'll do individual warnings for each chapter on my DW, and link to them in the notes at the beginning of each chapter. There are going to be a lot of them, but I'm not completely sure what they'll all be yet. When the story is complete, I'll update the warnings on AO3 to reflect them. Some other pairings may appear than are listed in the 'relationships' tag list above - I haven't totally decided what's going to happen yet! The individual warnings for this chapter are included in the DW post linked above.
> 
> NOTE: I've chosen to use the spelling 'anguiset' rather than 'anguisette', as Carey spells it in the book, because it's a pseudo-French word and -ette is typically a feminine ending (Terre d'Ange is an AU version of France in Carey's universe). Although Carey never mentions a male anguisette, there doesn't seem any reason why there wouldn't be one, and I'd guess they'd use the masculine ending, making it anguiset.

The marble floor was hard and cold under Will's knees, but he ignored the pain; kneeling for long periods was an early part of the training for all reared within the Night Court, even those who would not be bought into a House as an Adept. In the distance, a fountain tinkled. The air smelt of jasmine. 

"Pretty," commented the man sprawled on the chair. He sipped at his wine. Through sidelong glances, Will recognized him. Jacques Crawford, the Lord Detector, head of the Crown's investigative security force. His rich, deep voice was uninterested. "He must be nearly ten. Why aren't you buying him in?"

The Dowayne's wrinkled mouth pinched slightly. Her blue eyes, still sharp and icy under their elegantly coiffed white brows, seemed to see through everything, and Will quailed inside, even as he kept absolutely still with his eyes at the regulation downward angle. He was already in trouble; he had run away again, and had been playing in the Night Court when the guards found him and summoned him. His curls were still damp and his skin pink from scrubbing.

"He is flawed," she said briefly. "But I thought he might interest you. Look closer."

In his peripheral vision, Will saw Lord Crawford put his goblet aside and stand. He was an impressive man, the casual way he wore his luscious fabrics and the luxury of House Cereus' inmost sanctum suggesting that he was a man used to power. After approaching Will and circling him once, during which Will tried not to move, Lord Crawford tilted the boy's chin up to the light and examined his face critically. Mindful of his training, Will tried not to flinch before his piercing, steady gaze, and kept his eyes fixed on a curlicue on the far wall. Crawford's grip was hard but not rough, with obvious strength behind it, however, and when it suddenly tightened Will could not suppress a shiver. He felt, rather than heard, Crawford's intake of breath.

"Well, well," he murmured. He adjusted his cloak with easy grace and sat back on his haunches so that their eyes were level. 

"Do you know what you are, Will?"

Will swallowed. The Dowayne's words from the day his mother sold him to House Cereus burst into the forefront of his mind, and he bit his lip. _A whore's unwanted get._ He did not think that was the answer Lord Crawford wanted.

"That mark in your eye makes you unfit for service in any of the Houses, but it makes you something even more special." Lord Crawford smiled gently. "It is called Kushiel's Dart, and it appears only once every few generations. Do you know what an _anguiset_ is?"

"No," breathed Will, then abashed at a sharp look from the Dowayne, he added "Sir." 

He noted the way the light crow's feet around Lord Crawford's eyes deepened, so that he seemed to smile, although his expression did not otherwise change. He filed that away for later. Lord Crawford stood abruptly.

"You are right that he interests me," he said. "How much are you asking for him?"

The Dowayne's mouth pinched again at this bluntness. She hesitated, and Will could see her weighing the cost of Lord Crawford's clothes, the value of his favour, the quick change in his manner.

"Twelve thousand," she ventured. Will stiffened. It was a ridiculous sum.

"Done," said Crawford promptly, and if Will had not been so stunned by the speed of events, he would have had to hide a smile as her expression went blank with rage. That he had not even bothered to haggle was an insult, and he could see her wondering how much more she should have asked.

"Will you take him now?" she asked, through clenched teeth.

"I'll send for him after his tenth birthday," Lord Crawford said casually, draining the contents of his goblet. "Keep him until then. I want him to have the full benefit of House Cereus' excellent training before he enters my service."

"The full benefit?" There was a slight emphasis in the Dowayne's voice that Will did not understand.

"No," Crawford said sharply. "I don't want him touched, Muriel. Basic deportment only, in addition to the usual. I shall see to the rest in my own way."

He looked at Will again and smiled, and Will stared back, enraptured.

"Be good now, Will," he said gently. "I believe you'll enjoy working for me."


	2. Alana's debut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings for this chapter here: toft.dreamwidth.org/706672.html

*

The first time Will met Lord Hannibal Lecter was at the debut of Alana, Lord Crawford's other ward. He had been in Crawford's house for nearly three years by then, but this was the first time he had been permitted to serve at one of his parties. Only someone who knew and loved Alana like Will could have seen how nervous she was. Even so, she was so much better at this than him, smiling and curtseying and welcoming all the guests with a pretty toss of her hair and sharp remarks that made women smile and men laugh. Her new rubies, a coming of age present, flashed at her throat.

"I want you to stay in the background tonight, Will," Crawford had said gently, as he adjusted the ribbon around Will's neck and straightened the immaculate lines of his shirt. He had insisted on this simple outfit, and Will had felt dowdy in contrast to Alana's rich colours, but he glowed now under Crawford's approval. Much later, he would remember that ribbon, and realize that it was meant to attract a very particular kind of attention, even then. That was Crawford's cunning. "This is Alana's night. Your time will come. Keep your eyes and ears open, just as I've taught you, but don't attract attention. Look at faces and remember names, but don't appear to be looking."

"Yes, sir," murmured Will, immeasurably relieved. 

He hovered in the background, giving Alana an encouraging smile when she looked for one, but otherwise he stayed in the comforting state of invisibility he had learned so young in House Cereus, refilling drinks, taking away plates. He was addressed directly only once, by his other teacher and frequent visitor to their house, the Lady Bella du Aubon, once a great courtesan, now a diplomat and patron of the arts. She and Lord Crawford had been lovers, once, perhaps still were, but her deep brown eyes were as gentle and soft as his were hard, and she travelled often in the service of the court; Will was happy to see her now, not least because of the comfort it obviously gave Alana. Most of the other guests probably thought he was a servant. Only once did Lord Crawford call his name, but that moment shone in Will's memory, to be picked over and handled like a favourite jewel for years afterwards. Will was returning from the kitchen with a refilled vase of wine for the table when out of the happy hum of voices, he heard his name.

"I have someone I'd like you to meet," Lord Crawford was saying.

"Hannibal, this is my younger ward, William. Will, this is Lord Hannibal Lecter."

Will stepped forward, his mouth opening to offer the conventional greeting to a social superior, but something about the presence of the man before him made him look up, and then he was caught, and all words fled from his mind. The man before him froze for an instant, and something flashed in his dark, measureless eyes that made a flush course through Will. Then his mouth crooked into a rueful smile, and the moment passed. Even released from his electric regard, Will's legs felt as if they might not hold him up. The man turned to Lord Crawford.

"I congratulate you, Jacques. Wherever did you find him?"

"The clearing house," Crawford said briefly. "House Cereus were fool enough to give him to me for practically nothing. He'll be worth a lot more when I'm done with him, of course."

"Of course," Lecter echoed with a wry twist of his mouth. His voice was soft, lilting, Will thought, as his brain finally stumbled into life again and reminded him of his history lessons, with the faint accent of the north of Terre d'Ange, where the House of Lecter made their home.

"William," Lecter said gently. "I am sure Lord Crawford has not forgotten to teach you manners."

Will's spine straightened almost without his volition, and he dropped his gaze immediately.

"No, Sir," he murmured, and performed the obeisance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lord Crawford turning away to speak to Lady Cardas. He felt a vague thrill of panic at being left alone with Lecter, even though they were in a crowded room.

"I am very curious about you, Will," said Lecter. Without warning, he reached out and ran his hand through Will's hair. Will looked up, startled by the casual intimacy. Then Lecter's fingers tightened, pulling his handful of curls so that Will's head was forced back and he gasped, his eyes fluttering closed with the hot ache that flushed along his nerves. Then it was gone, and there was only the faintest brush of a fingertip at the corner of his left eye, the eye that held the treacherous red fleck that had exiled him the Night Court, but the touch was so brief that he thought later he must have imagined it. He opened his eyes, dazed, and Lord Lecter was a measured and courteous distance away, his mouth quirked in a polite smile, the very picture of courtesy to the indulged ward of an old friend. Will tried to match his poise, and could tell by the way Lecter's smile deepened that he had failed miserably. His breeches felt tight, and he was hot with shame and grateful for the dimness in this corner of the room. He had the feeling that nothing escaped Lord Lecter's regard, however.

"I feel sure we shall meet again soon," he said.

"I-it was a pleasure to meet you, Sir."

"Yes," said Lord Lecter, with grave amusement. For a moment his eyes caught the candlelight that filled the room in a way that gave them an inhuman, predatory cast. An echo of his ruthless touch burned across Will's scalp, turning his insides to liquid. "I am sure it was."

The rest of that night was a blur in Will's memory; the auction for Alana's debut as a servant of Naamah, the victorious Lord Chilton, Alana's faint wince of disgust, unnoticed by all but Will, before she smoothed her expression and smiled demurely at him, taking his arm to the hoots and cheers of the other guests. Apart from his pity for Alana, Will had eyes only for Lord Lecter, and he barely managed to follow Crawford's instructions and watch the currents in the room, commit the names and faces of the other guests to memory.

Dismissed at last from the party, although the sounds of revelry were still going on downstairs, Will lay where he had flopped down onto his bed, too tired to undress, too excited to sleep. Slowly, abashedly, he trailed his fingers down his shirt. He didn't understand that flicker of distaste across Alana's face. Lord Chilton seemed arrogant and rather stupid, but Naamah had lain with kings and murderers alike; it was an honour to serve. Will imagined himself going up for auction, the eager faces bidding on him, and felt heat stir in his belly. Perhaps Lord Lecter would bid for him. Will would be his for the night, and Lecter would be his first. 

Will felt a shiver of mingled fear and arousal at the thought. He hastily fumbled open his breeches. Would Lecter be gentle, undress him and allow Will to please him, at last able to try out for real all he had learned from the _Trois Milles Joies_ and the other textbooks on the Arts of Naamah that Lord Crawford had them study with the Lady du Aubon? But what if Will was clumsy? Lecter would punish him, he was sure. Will bit his lip to stifle a moan and ran his fingers into his hair, tugging on it the way Lecter had and stripping himself frantically with his other hand, trying to scratch the itch that Lecter's rough touch had planted so deep within him. 

Like all citizens of Elua, and especially those destined for Naamah, he had been no stranger to pleasure from a young age, but when he had done this before, he had thought only of disconnected images – the smell of Alana's skin, her hair, Lord Crawford's gentle hands, Henri the stable boy's smile – but now a new fantasy flung itself into his mind fully formed, as if it had been waiting for a moment of weakness to spring upon him. Lord Lecter, his face stern, grabbing Will's hair and thrusting him downward, forcing him to perform the _languisement_ on him with no preparation, no gentleness, taking Will's mouth like it was his to use. Will thrust his fingers into his mouth, and his hips bucked off the bed. And then he might throw Will down onto the bed face-down, spread his legs and – and – Will climaxed with a muffled cry, then immediately stiffened, terrified someone might have heard, as the hot pleasure still coursed through him and his own mess cooled on his fingers. There was no interruption in the music and laughter from downstairs, and Will caught his breath in dry, harsh gasps.


	3. The first assignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are here: http://toft.dreamwidth.org/707301.html

Will's own debut several years later was a much more discreet affair than Alana's had been.

He had had long since all but given up on his secret wish for his first night in the service of Naamah to be bought by Lord Lecter. Will had worked to convince himself that Lecter was uninterested in him, and the fire Lecter had lit within him had banked into embers until the next time their eyes met in the street, or across large and crowded rooms, and that predatory hunger flashed across Lecter's face for an instant, leaving Will burning for weeks afterwards. Crawford was preoccupied these days by the grotesque murders of members of the upper circles of Terre d'Ange society, and Will knew that he, like Alana, would be put to work listening, watching, reading their client's minds and their secrets in the moments when they were most unguarded. He was no ordinary courtesan, after all, with all his training; he had come to understand that while their bodies were the lures, their minds were the hooks beneath them, and Jacques Crawford would cast them out in currents he thought promising to reel in – who knew what.

"Tell me what you see, Will," Crawford had said, spreading the sketches of the bodies before him, the maps with dots showing where the victims had been last seen, where the remains had been found. Will swallowed. This was a test, only one of many. He bent his mind to the task.

"It's someone high up," he said slowly. "Probably nobility. They can get access to these people without bodyguards present. They must be charming, personable, well educated."

Crawford nodded, and Will continued, encouraged.

"They're strong," he said, looking at the picture of Jean de la Minot, the third son of a minor house with a reputation for high living, who had been hoisted onto the gaming table of Briony House some time between four and five in the morning and pierced through the heart by the blunt iron pole in the middle of the roulette table. "Careful. And they have a sense of humour. He thought – he thought this was funny."

"He," said Crawford, watching him.

"I think so," Will said slowly. "More men than women have been killed, and no children, but the attacks aren't sexual in nature."

"Except for Stephan Mabelon and Lady Genevieve."

"Except for them, right, but that was – it feels –" Will worried his lower lip. The tableau of the couple on the Lady Genevieve's marriage bed, their limbs dislocated and wrapped around each other to form a parody of the marriage knot that country girls wore on rings, felt stagey, crude, compared to the others. "It doesn't feel like him," he finished lamely. 

"You think it might have been the husband," Crawford said, with a weight of satisfaction that made Will suspect that this had been Crawford's conclusion all along.

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"He's a jealous man."

Will blinked. "Why would he be jealous? She only took a lover, she wasn't going to leave him."

Crawford laughed softly. "'Love as thou wilt' is the philosophy we grow up with, Will, but that means different things to different people. You'll learn that one day."

"Soon?" Will said hopefully, and Crawford laughed again, and ruffled Will's hair. Will bristled, annoyed. "I'm nearly seventeen! Alana debuted on her sixteenth birthday."

"The time wasn't right," Crawford said, and hesitated.

"But it is now?" Will said, his heart skipping a beat with eagerness. "Is Lord –" he almost said, _is Lord Lecter back in town_ , but stopped himself just in time. Crawford gave him a shrewd look. 

"I've begun circulating rumours about my second protegé," he said at last, smiling. "People are talking about you, Will. You have a special appeal. I don't think you'll be disappointed."

He had been disappointed – near tears with it – on learning that Lord Lecter would not be in attendence, having to deal with business in the country (carrying on an intrigue with the young Lord Baudoin, they're seen all around the countryside together, he's encouraging his ambitions for the crown, Alana had whispered in his ear as she stroked his hair), but the guestlist Lord Crawford showed him later that week was all a promising young servant of Naamah could wish, glittering with old titles and new wealth. That night Crawford had him wear deepest, darkest red, the colour of heart's blood, and this time he wore nothing around his neck, but the embroidered shirt was cut lower than was fashionable for men, revealing the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Will looked at himself in the mirror, feeling suddenly shy and nervous. His dreams had become strange, full of twisted dead bodies, a stag with a bleeding mouth, but his slight pallor and the shadows under his eyes heightened the effect of the dark colour against his skin, making him look ethereal, fragile. 

"Good," said Lord Crawford behind him, and for a moment his hand rested on Will's lower back, warm and possessive. Will leaned into the touch, craving reassurance that he was owned, that he was safe, on this night of all nights, but Crawford stepped back and turned him firmly. He made some last adjustments to Will's clothes. He had left Will's hair to its own devices, the wild curls the only hint of rebelliousness against the strict laces and buttons of Will's fussy shirt. Will didn't protest. He was no longer naïve enough to think that Crawford cared for his well-being more than his usefulness demanded. He was determined to be very useful.

"Good," he said again. "You'll do well, Will. You're ready."

The first guest to greet Will was the poet laureate, Lady Frederica Lounds, who Crawford suspected was running her own investigation into the Ripper. Will had seen her perfectly sculpted red curls and sharp pale features before she was announced, and had time to prepare himself. 

"William," she said, inclining her head sardonically. "Felicitations."

Allowing his mouth to twist a little, Will inclined his head in return; low enough to be polite, but not a full obeisance. He felt Crawford's hand tighten a little on his arm. Lady Lounds' eyes became steely.

"Lord Crawford tells me you read poetry," she said. "What did you think of my latest?"

Will shrugged. "It wasn't to my taste," he said. "It was a little… sensational."

Lounds' eyebrows rose, but there was a line of guests behind her, and she moved on, nodding with a smile like iron.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Crawford murmured in an undertone as he bowed to the next guest.

"Yes," Will said.

It was a closed auction. Lady Lounds was the highest bidder, and Will had the satisfaction of Crawford's approving smile before he was hurried into a closed carriage, his palms sweating. 

She had Will scrub the floor of her scriptorium for hours, naked on his hands and knees, then perform the _languisement_ on her with her sharp nails raking the back of his neck, his sweaty, dirty hands scrabbling at the back of her thighs as she hissed, his face and tongue buried in her scent, her slick heat. Then, when she had come on his face twice, nearly suffocating him, she strapped an _aide d'amour_ to her crotch as he gasped and coughed.

"You're disgusting," she said coldly. "Get on your hands and knees. I've paid through the nose for your virginity, Crawford's whore, and I'm going to have every penny's worth of it." Will fell forward, teeth gritted with pleasure and rage, and she settled the thick head of the aide against his hole and thrust in slowly but with ruthless pressure, rocking her hips against his body's resistance as Will whimpered and bit his lips bloody. "Oh yes," she groaned, and arched, and he felt her orgasm again as she thrust deep within him, filling and stretching him to breaking point. For a moment he felt that he could not stand it, and his _signale_ was on his lips, so close he could taste it, but then the second wave of pain swept over him, transmuting into pleasure, and he moaned. Lounds laughed, deep and satisfied.

"Elua, you're a real _anguiset_. You were worth every penny."

She fucked him, deep and hard, and hurt him, paying no mind to his pleasure, and Will writhed, and hated her, and came, crying out her name before the end. 

As he lay on a pallet afterwards, almost insensible, she held a low conversation with a messenger, thinking him asleep. Will went home the next day with bruises, stiff muscles, a name, and his first patron gift, a (rather small) bag of gold pieces to put toward his marque. Jacques Crawford was pleased, and Will slept well, for a few nights.


	4. Marque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will spends some time on the tattooist's table getting the beginning of his marque, and there is more serial killer plot! Also, Beverley Katz appears, hooray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings for this chapter are here: http://toft.dreamwidth.org/707780.html
> 
> Continued thanks to longwhitecoats, who is basically masterminding this whole story :D

After that spate of killings, seven in three months, the Ripper submerged back into Terre d'Ange society without a trace. A watch was put on their home at the insistence of the Queen, who had taken a personal interest in the case, and Crawford acquiesced reluctantly, despite commenting to Alana (in Will's earshot) that it only made them more visible. Will could not go out without the bodyguard Crawford had assigned to him, a capable, rangy woman with a perpetually raised eyebrow and a sardonic smile, who could pin a rose to a pillar at thirty feet with the throwing knives she could pull from, apparently, thin air. Will had expected to find her an annoyance, but he found that there was something reassuring about her falling into step behind him like a sarcastic shadow whenever he so much as thought about going outside.

Beverley accompanied him to the second, fruitless assignment with Lady Lounds in the vain hope of picking up something else that might give Crawford a lead on the stale case, and her eyes visibly widened when he staggered out of Lounds' rooms the next morning with a bruised and bloody lip and ankles chafed raw from cuffs. She only bit her lip and glared out of the carriage window on the way home, but to have someone tuck a rug around his knees and help him out of the carriage at Crawford's house, to order a hot bath and a visit from an apothecary, to just make those decisions for him – it was, it was nice.

He was a week recovering from Lounds, and then there were the long hours on the tattooist's table for the first lines of his marque at the base of his spine. At the first pierce of the needle and the metallic tap of the inker's hammer he stiffened and bit down on his wrist; at the second, he whimpered, and the tattooist slapped his thigh with a growl. At the first swipe of the cloth to wipe off the ink and blood, Will moaned out loud. After that, the blushing assistant gave him a piece of rope to bite down on. The three hours he spent on the table were tortuously pleasurable, and by the end of it he had leaked a huge damp spot onto the front of his breeches, and the tattooist was almost incoherent with annoyance and frustration. " _Anguisets_!" he growled. "My grandfather told me they were the worst! Can't keep still. I take no responsibility for the consequences!"

"You have done a magnificent job, as always, Master Franklin," said Crawford soothingly, and there was a chink of gold. "For your extra trouble. And perhaps a clean pair of breeches for my ward." 

Will sat on the table, shivering with shame and pleasure, twisting his neck to see the beginnings of his marque in the mirror. When complete, it would run up his spine to the base of his neck and would mark him as a free man, no longer a Servant of Naamah unless he chose; until then, it was a mark of his servitude to the house of Lord Crawford, an indication to all that his body was not his own. He could not stop looking at it. The design Crawford had decided on with the Master Tattooist was not yet clear, as only an inch or so had been made up by Lounds' patron-gifts; it was an intertwining of black vines so far, that was all. 

"Do you like it?" he asked, as he struggled into his shirt carefully, his erection finally subdued by a few moments alone in the latrines where he had barely needed to wrap his hand around his cock before he was spurting into a washcloth thoughtfully provided by the establishment. He was not able to meet the assistant's eyes afterwards, but he was at least able to leave decently in his fresh breeches.

"Stop dallying, Will," Crawford snapped. "Come along."

Will bit his lip, and to his shame and frustration, tears pricked his eyes.

"It's beautiful," Crawford said, more gently. "I'm proud of you."

Through his tears, Will smiled. Crawford helped him pull the shirt down over the bandage, and when his fingers brushed it, Will had to suppress a moan.

"Let's get you home," Crawford said briskly, but Will could hear the laughter in his voice. "You're a menace to the public."

The next day was like the day after an assignation; he felt sore and well-used, languid, and his mind was washed clean with pain. No nightmares. After that, though, he was just sore. He could not lie on his back for a week, and no assignations for a month, on pain of death, Master Franklin had said, because he wasn't going through all that again. He was put to translating a long anatomical treatise for Lord Crawford, that kept him occupied for long, dusty hours as he tried not to scratch his back against the chair, and he and Alana played chess in the evenings and didn't talk about her assignations.

Then the brief period of relaxed tension in their home ended with the disappearances of the young women, three daughters of mercantile families, all pale of skin, all dark-haired, all slight, with similar facial features. Crawford was out interviewing the relatives and canvassing the streets with the guardsmen to find anyone who might have seen the victims in their last hours. He returned late almost every night, and came home with shoulders hunched and an ashy cast to his dark skin. Alana would go down to the study at night to take him tea, and he sometimes took her out with him to visit the families of the vanished girls in the hope that, being closer to them in age and sex, she might see something, hear something that he couldn't, but Will was banished to the study, long after his month was up and his back was healed, with nothing to do but pore over the engravings and miniature portraits of the missing girls and try to understand why they were being taken.

Will chafed at the bit with frustration, partly that he was not asked to help, partly with loneliness and claustrophobia. The itch crept under his skin and consumed him, keeping him awake at night, and when he slept, he dreamed of the dead girls lying in his bed next to him, of a bloodstained floor he could not get clean, of ink that poured from his tattoo, trickling down his thighs and pooling black around his feet, and that Hannibal Lecter held him down and licked the inky blood from his swollen flesh, every swipe of his tongue like flame, until Will woke, frantically aroused and drenched in sweat. 

At last, driven by need and exhaustion from dreams, he knocked on the study door late at night.

"Yes?" barked Crawford. Quaking, Will entered. "Oh," Crawford said, more quietly. "Hello, Will. Come over here. How are you?"

"I thought I might help," Will blurted out. "With an assignation."

Crawford shook his head. "This isn't the kind of case you could help with, Will. This killer isn't a sadist, he's an obsessive; Alana thinks the girls are all based on an original template, and I'm inclined to agree."

"Oh." Will's disappointment must have been evident, because Crawford's expression changed into something warmer, more amused, and he rolled his shoulders.

"I have had a number of offers for you," he said, almost casually. Will stiffened. "Unrelated to the case. We could look at them now, if you like."

"All right," Will said, trying not to sound too eager, and Crawford laughed softly. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a handful of envelopes, all already slit open. Thick, expensive paper, most of them. Several already had red marks on them; Crawford set those aside.

"Not worth our time," he said briefly, at Will's hesitation over them.

They leafed through the remaining proposals, some ludicrous, some presumptious, some intriguing. Will felt his heart beat faster at the low rustle of paper, Crawford's murmurs.

"The Aragonese ambassador has expressed an interest, but it's far too low an offer, and she's of no interest to us just now… Joaquin L'Envers asks for an audience… Marie de la Flambards, she's a possibility… Sir Garrett Hobbs asks to contract you as a gift to his daughter on her sixteenth birthday, that's unusual…"

Something pulled at Will, begging for his attention. He knew Hobbs by sight, a provincial noble, quiet, known to be an excellent hunter. He provided the best game to the royal court, but was rarely seen in town. He had never heard of a daughter, but evidently it came as no surprise to Lord Crawford. "That one," he said.

Crawford raised an eyebrow.

"Any reason?"

"No." Will swallowed. "Just… it's odd. It sounds interesting."

Crawford shrugged.

"As you like," he said.


	5. Hunting Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will gets drawn into Abigail and Garrett Jacob Hobbs' game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Longwhitecoats for helping Will not get a snapped collarbone! If there's anything incorrect left, it's because I ignored her instructions.
> 
> Detailed warnings for this chapter here: http://toft.dreamwidth.org/709490.html
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! This one's extra long to make up for it.

Hobbs was a small, wiry man with power in his arms and shoulders, the slow, considered movements of a hunter. He was dressed conservatively, in clean hunting leathers, well used, and his eyes were clear, like a winter sky. He looked Will up and down. There was no sign of the daughter yet. The room in the small townhouse – not owned, obviously rented, from the neutral furniture and dispassionate decoration – was not luxurious but was clean and neat, and had obviously been carefully prepared for this evening. It was much longer than it was wide, obviously intended for dining parties, but the table and chairs had been pushed up against the wall, the carpet moved, and at the end of the long room was a tall pole of wood. It was perhaps a birch sapling, about eight feet high and stripped of its branches and bark but unpolished, mounted in a solid-looking block with a sheet under it to protect the floor. Behind it was a large, flat square of wood, like a door. The room smelt of fresh-cut timber.

"Her name's Abigail. I mean, my daughter," Hobbs said without preamble. "You're for her."

Will nodded, then said, "Yes, sir," not sure of his place. He hadn't been given any commands yet, and Beverley still stood in the doorway, a quiet, sure presence at his back.

"Who do we pay?" Hobbs said again, with that abruptness. He didn't seem like a man used to talking. Will felt Beverley stiffen, but he didn't take offence.

"You can give the money to Beverley afterwards, Sir."

"Do we add anything?"

There was something freeing in this open negotiation, this bluntness, even though something inside Will curled up at the thought of Crawford's face. "It's customary to give a gift towards my marque. Whatever you think I – whatever is deserved." He left off the 'sir', this time, sensing that it made Hobbs uncomfortable.

"Your marque. Your freedom." Will looked up. There was something curious in Hobbs' face, like longing. "Lord Crawford owns you."

Will hesitated, but then there was a noise at the top of the stairs, and Will could tell the moment his answer became of no interest to Hobbs whatsoever, because he was already turning to look as the slim young woman's feet came into view through the bannisters.

The second he saw Hobbs' daughter, Will knew. If Hobbs had been looking at him then, Will's life would have been forfeit, but Hobbs' attention was still on his daughter as she entered the room, his eyes suddenly covetous, almost yearning, drinking her in. Will stared too, in a kind of daze, at her straight black hair that framed her pale face and her wide, clear blue eyes; she was like the original painting to all those inferior copies lying on Jack Crawford's desk. She was dressed, like her father, in dull, woodsy colours, as if she were about to go hunting, and slung over her shoulder she had a bow and quiver. At her hip she had a knife in a sheath. In that moment before thought could return, something uneasy and hot turned over in his stomach.

Then he snapped into full, cold awareness, and thanked all the gods that he was not yet on his knees, that he had time, that Beverley was still behind him, shifting from foot to foot. He wetted his dry lips.

"My lady," he said. "May I have your permission to speak with my guard?"

Risking a glance up at the daughter – Abigail – he saw her moment of hesitation. By rights she was the hostess now, but she was not used to taking charge. She bit her lip and looked at her father, and Hobbs waved his hand dismissively. As Will turned, Beverley frowned down at him.

"I'm to stay at this house. Lord Crawford's orders," she murmured, and did not move.

"Excuse us for a moment, my lord, my lady," Will said stiffly, and drew her back into the guardroom shuffling backwards and then getting to his feet as soon as he was on the other side of the door.

"Will," she hissed, "you know I can't –" 

"Beverley, listen, just get Lord Crawford here as quickly as you can," Will said. She closed her mouth with a click, then opened it again.

"Why do you –"

"I think it's him. Who's been taking the girls."

Beverley's mouth formed an 'o', then she began to shake her head, but whether to disagree with his suspicion or to refuse to leave him, Will didn't know. He didn't have time. This was already out of character, and his whole being told him to get back on his knees, to go back to his clients and be whatever they wanted.

"I can't leave now, he'll suspect. Please, just go. Get Crawford. He won't do anything to me, anything more than usual, it's her who's – who he –" Will stumbled over the words, and Beverley's face hardened.

"I'll be back, okay?" 

*

This was only his third assignation, but Will already had come to look forward to the sloughing of the outside world, the emptying of his mind that came with stepping into the role a client made for him. Now, with half his mind screaming that Will was part of this man's end-game for his daughter and the other half already second-guessing his suspicion – the coincidence was too much, Will was just seeing things, it couldn't be him, could it? – Will felt ill-fitting, out of step. He focused on his feet pattern of the carpet in front of him and tried to clear his mind, take even breaths. 

He had to just allow the encounter to go forward and trust that Lord Crawford would come for him and for Abigail before Hobbs played out his game to its close, if he planned to do that tonight, if Will was right, if, if. Something like panic was tightening his throat, but there was also a thrill in the fear that shivered down his spine, at the madness and the violence about to draw him into its maelstrom, away from all protection. He could draw off some of that violence from Abigail, make himself a channel for it. He told himself that it was to protect her, that the sick excitement churning in his stomach was horror. 

Abigail glowed with awkward grace, on the threshold of womanhood. She was looking at him through her eyelashes and fingering the carved handle of a knife in its sheath. Hobbs nodded, and she took a step forward, then hesitated again. She was worrying her lip uncertainly again, an endearing habit that made her look much younger.

"Kneel?" she said. It sounded like a question, but Will fell to his knees onto the thin carpet without hesitation, rightness sliding through him like a knife. He saw her eyes flash.

She smelled of sweet wine and wildflowers as she came behind him. The blade's edge – it was a hunting dagger, big for a girl's hand – kissed the skin of his throat, and he shuddered. She ran her hand through his hair, going to scratch behind his ear with a familiarity that got under his guard and unmanned him. She was from a hunting estate, he thought dimly. She must be used to dogs.

"He's sweet," she said. "I like him." Will felt himself sink further into that deep, soft space, his mind emptying of its own accord.

"Tie him up, sweetheart," Hobbs said, and Abigail's hand fell to the nape of Will's neck as Will dropped his head further, gave himself up to her. She could not pick him up by the scruff, of course, so she compromised by half-dragging him, half-guiding him across the room by his high-collared shirt, so that the stiff fabric pulled sharply across his throat and made it hard to breathe. At the wooden pole she let him go. Will fell forward, gulping for air, bereft at her absence for a moment until she returned with the rope. 

"He should have a collar," Abigail said, distant and hard above him, and Will's eyes fluttered closed

"Strip him," came Hobb's quiet reminder from across the room.

"I know, daddy."

There was a slight hint of petulance in her tone. Abigail cut his long shirt off him, the cold steel only just stroking his spine and the nape of his neck, Will tried to think through the soft roaring in his mind. Was Hobbs testing Abigail? Testing Will? He surely wouldn't let any man touch Abigail in front of him – so what was this? It wasn't difficult, this time, to tell himself to just surrender himself to circumstance and see what would happen. Abigail tugged at his hair again, guiding him to his feet, and took his wrists, rubbed her thumbs curiously over the place where his veins traced blue and delicate lines under the skin. Then she lifted them above his head, tied him with quick, workmanlike movements to the pole, and tore his breeches off.

Will's head lolled on his shoulder. She did not tie his body, or his ankles, or touch him anywhere but his hands to check his circulation, but she slipped a velvet blindfold over his face and adjusted its tightness, then pushed it back up over his forehead so he could see again. She caught his eye then as if to say, _this is temporary_. Her eyes were cool and intelligent, and only their slight wideness betrayed excitement, or fear, as her gaze flickered down over his naked body and up again to his face, her cheeks slightly pinker. She brushed her finger across his cheek before her father shifted impatiently, and she was walking across the room again and unhitching the bow from her shoulder.

There was a single chair turned towards Will's end of the room, off to the side, and Hobbs sat in it now, legs crossed, watching. Abigail took what Will now realized was her firing stance next to him, at the end of the rug. She took an arrow from the quiver on her back.

"This is a practice arrow," she said, loudly and clearly. "The point is wrapped with leather, and there's a wad of wool at the tip. It won't break the skin."

Will's muscles tensed of their own accord. She raised the bow and fired in one smooth motion, and there was a snick and a hiss before his breath was driven from his lungs as the arrow hit him solidly on the meat of his chest, leaving a circle of pain like a fist pressing into him just above his left nipple, close to his heart. "Name your targets," Hobbs said softly. Abigail had already re-strung her next arrow.

"Left thigh," she said, and fired again before Will could prepare himself, and he groaned as the blunt head of the arrow struck muscle hard, sending numb fire lancing up and down his leg before dulling to heat. There was a red circle where it had hit him, and he could already see a lump forming.

"Right thigh," Abigail said, not giving him time to think before another arrow hissed through the air and bounced off the meat of his leg. He cried out when the next struck his shin, instinctively trying to double over but held upright by the ropes at his wrists. He took another to the chest, and again, and the third time it felt like his lungs would burst with that brief flare of pain. She placed arrows with regularity and precision, hitting him on muscled flesh and bone, where it hurt the most, but never fragile joints. Although he could barely think, Will could recognize her skill, and he felt cradled, safe, awed by it even as she pummelled him with arrows. It became easier to almost relax into the blows, to stop flailing and twisting against his bonds.

As she layered his bruises, one circle of pain on top of the other like coins stacked in piles, Will's whole world became focused on her movements as she strung, pulled, and fired her bow, the speed and strength of the arrow as it careened towards him before coming to that strange, sudden stop against his body. He began to see, superimposed above the harmless tips of those arrows, the flash of metal, to imagine the wet thud as the point sank into his flesh, tearing and bleeding. After she loosed the tenth arrow Abigail let her arms fall to her sides, and Will's cracked moan echoed in the room in the silence. Abigail was breathing heavily.

"Well done, baby," said Hobbs. He rose, and walked down the room. Will's skin prickled as he approached. He looked over Will clinically, examining each of the marks where the arrows had him him. He pressed his thumb into the double bruise on Will's left thigh, hard, and Will swallowed a groan. Hobbs ignored him. "That was perfect."

At the other end of the room, Abigail stood a little straighter. Her slim, upright form was the last thing Will saw before Hobbs slipped the blindfold down over his face. He felt the shadow of a touch on his fingers, checking his circulation again, before he was left there, blind and suddenly alone. Abigail's voice grounded him again, gave him a line to hold on to.

"An arrow can pierce your artery if it hits you in the throat, hip-crease, or under your arm," she said. As the red darkness behind his eyes softened and he stopped trying to see, Will felt his bruises throbbing like points of pain mapping out his body. 

"It can disable you if it severs a tendon, or tears through a big muscle," she continued. He heard her moving, heard the brush of leather and metal chinking against metal. "For big animals we use hooked arrows, so it tears more blood vessels open if they run."

Will swallowed, and tasted the ghost of copper in his mouth.

"I'm going to use pointed tips now," she said. She cleared her throat. She was nervous. Will's heart thrummed like thunder in his chest, and the blindfold was already damp with sweat. "Do you want guards?"

His mouth was dry, and he tried to shape a word, but he couldn't find his way back to speech, back to humanity. He shook his head instead, and heard her intake of breath from across the room. He yearned towards her, he wanted to be touched. His whole body ached. He had not forgotten Hobbs; somehow his still, silent presence was there, holding Will in, like the ropes around his wrist. The wood pressing against his back was warm, now, and splinters left a trail of itchy fire down his spine and buttocks.

"Count," said Hobbs quietly. "Start on the left, honey. Breathe in."

Slow, even breaths. Will breathed with her, centred himself in the darkness.

"One," she said. There was a whistle and a crack, and Will felt a sharp sting in his side where a splinter jumped from the arrow's path. He could barely catch his breath.

"Two." The same on the other side, a snap as the arrow punched into wood. Her breathing was even.

"Three." An arrow higher on his left side, directly under his arm. She was outlining him, penning him in with arrows, he realized, and he suppressed a low keen.

"Spread your legs," she said, and Will did, his breath coming in sobs, his thigh muscles trembling and twitching. The screaming of his body was so loud that he did no hear Abigail's count, but he felt the air displaced by the arrow brush against his testicles like a dangerous caress, and hot fear washed through his loins and belly so that he thought he might come, or lose control of his bladder, or vomit.

"Five." Another sting above his right knee, and this time he felt warm blood trickle from the splinter cut. She counted off four more, and with every twang of her bow Will's heart stopped, and he lived a lifetime through the whistle of the arrow before the metal buried itself in the wood and his heart thumped into life again. All his senses seemed sharpened, and he could smell Abigail's sweat, her fear and exhilaration, smell his own arousal and his blood.

"Nine," she said, her voice shaking, and the arrow shaved a little too close to his left side, raked a burning track across his ribs before hitting the pole. He almost wished, in a wild moment, that the last arrow would hit him, imagined it penetrating him, ripping him open.

Her rhythm stuttered.

"It's okay, honey, stay steady," Hobbs said quietly, and the last arrow struck the wood beside his neck. He leaned into it, despite himself, and felt the shaft against his cheek, still vibrating from the force of the shot. His breath sounded like sobs.

Abigail was there, cradling his head.

"Thank you," she whispered, over and over. "Thank you, thank you." He was not sure who she was speaking to; it sounded like a prayer. He felt her lips brush his cheek. Her hands were hot and clammy on his wrists as she cut him down and caught him, lowered him to the floor. His knees would not hold him up, and he gratefully leaned on her strength, the surprising toughness and warmth of her body in her slender frame as she laid him down on his side on something smooth. His mind felt foggy.

"Shhh," she whispered. Then the warmth was taken away, and he felt the knife-blade tracing the skin above his hip.

Hobbs' voice was above him, quiet and gentle. "Just like we talked about," he said, and the knife bit into his flesh.

There was a bang and a shout from outside, and suddenly there were what felt like dozens of people in the room. Somebody shouted, and Abigail screamed. Raising his head foggily from the ground, Will saw Hobbs backing into the corner, one hand on Abigail's throat and the other holding the knife. He was shouting something, but Will could not seem to understand. Abigail was scrabbling at his hand, her eyes wide and frantic, her hands slippery with blood. Then there was a whip-crack sound, and Will could not process what was different about Hobb's face until he fell backwards, the black crossbow bolt protruding obscenely from his eye.

"Will," said Lord Crawford. "Will. Talk to me, Will."

"I will take him," and Lord Lecter slid his arms under Will's shoulders and knees and lifted him with no show of effort. Will leaned into his warmth blindly, pressing his cheek against the buttons at his throat, overwhelmed by his presence, his spicy, masculine smell. "You are safe now," Lecter murmured.

"Abigail," croaked Will. "What –"

"She will be looked after. Hush. We must tend to your injuries."

Even on his best day, Will doubted that he would be able to resist the absolute authority in Lecter's voice; now, his muscles still trembling and jittering, naked, covered in sweat and blood and weak with submission, not to obey was unthinkable. He closed his eyes.


End file.
